


Angelic Bonding Rituals and Accidental Gates to Hell

by Misty_Floros



Series: Genderbent Omens [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Asexual Relationship, Established Relationship, F/F, Feat. Houska Castle, Folklore, Kissing, Post-Canon, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26433388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misty_Floros/pseuds/Misty_Floros
Summary: A demon comes knocking on the bookshop door in the middle of the night in order to alert Crowley to a certain Duke’s schemes.Consequently, Crowley and Aziraphale come up with a plan involving a Heavenly ritual and a chapel built over a gate to Hell.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Genderbent Omens [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197425
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	Angelic Bonding Rituals and Accidental Gates to Hell

There was a knock on the bookshop door. It made Aziraphale jump in her seat, and she looked at the pendulum clock on the wall. Its thin black hands showed the time to be ten past three.

“The Devil’s hour,” she muttered to herself without perturbation, removing her unnecessary reading spectacles.

She padded into the bookshop proper and over to one of the large windows. Rolling up the blind a notch, she surveyed the darkened street. Rain was pattering on the cobblestones, and they gleamed in the yellow light of nearby streetlamps. There was no sign of anyone.

She headed over to the coat rack to shrug on her trusty beige outer garment before approaching the front door. She’d left the key in the lock as was her habit, and now turned it twice, opening the door a crack.

A tall individual was standing against the backdrop of faintly illuminated buildings.

“Hi,” the person greeted in a gravelly voice, lifting their hand in an awkward wave.

Before Aziraphale could take in the human-shaped being’s appearance, she was hit with a wave of evil.

“Demon,” she said, confused and instinctively preparing for a fight. Hell had left them alone for two years; surely they weren’t returning now to exact their revenge? It was too soon, all too soon.

The demon backed away. Their left hand had remained in the air in greeting, and now their right joined it to make a gesture of surrender.

“Look, I, I’m not here on orders, sir. Madam.”

The demon appeared positively terrified, Aziraphale observed. They were trying to make themself seem smaller – which left a ridiculous impression, since they had good ten inches on Aziraphale – and hide in their hideous, long black trench coat which glistened with a layer of rainwater. As far as the angel could see, their complexion was wrinkled and pale to the point of translucency, and they sported a thick mane of grey curls which covered the sides of their face like curtains. The hair appeared to be matted with God knew what and was flattened by a top hat. They were wearing rounded sunglasses – at night. Wonder where they got that from.

Aziraphale furrowed her brows at them.

The newcomer continued hurriedly, in a raspy croak that was getting simultaneously higher and quieter, “I come in peace. I’m just looking for Crowley, and rumour has it… well, I figured I might find her here.”

Aziraphale’s face closed off. “Well, you were wrong. Goodnight to you.”

She tried to shut the door, but the demon prevented the action with the tip of their shoe. “No, wait, madam,” they croaked. They coughed and continued in a less grating, low-pitched tone, which nevertheless sounded as if they’d chain-smoked two cigarette packs and then had gone on to scream their lungs out at a concert, “I really mean no harm. I’m looking for her so I could warn her.”

“Warn her?”

“Yes, you see, some demons – high-ranking demons – they aren’t thrilled about you two still out here, uh, fraternising and all. But not me, I’m a fan, really. Anyway, they’re preparing something nasty for you two, and Crowley has been my acquaintance for some time. So, I thought I’d tell her, and I also wanted to find out if the rumours got it right. But mostly, I’ve come to warn her, yes.”

They said all that without pausing for breath, which wasn’t abnormal for inhuman creatures, but what piqued Aziraphale’s interest was that now they were panting as if they did need to breathe. That fact alone represented an above-standard exertion to appear human. Curious.

“And your name would be…?” Aziraphale asked, still reserved.

“Ruzgar, madam,” said the demon.

“Oh, well. Do wait here,” she commanded and promptly shut the door in the visitor’s face.

She returned to the back of the shop and ascended the winding stairs. The wooden steps creaked as she trod on them. Reaching the first floor, she quietly opened the door on the left and tiptoed into the bedroom. She laid a hand on Crowley’s shoulder and gently shook her awake.

“Wossup?” Crowley mumbled, blinking blearily in the darkness.

“There’s a demon here, asking after you,” Aziraphale informed her in a hushed voice.

Crowley appeared more alert by the second. “A demon?”

“Claims their name’s Ruzgar and they’ve come to warn you about something.”

Crowley sat up slowly. “Hm. I know her, though we haven’t spoken in decades.”

“It’s the strangest thing – she almost seemed to be afraid of me. Called me madam. A demon, calling me madam.”

“Yeah, she’s weird. A bit of a coward.”

“Do you trust her?”

Crowley shrugged. “Not sure. I reckon we’ll have to find out.”

* * *

Demons are social creatures. Ganging up against a victim, threatening each other, going to great lengths to prove they’re better than the other – those are all results of their need to interact. And, in the end, if they aren’t connected by anything else, they can always bond over their common enemy. Nothing brings people close as efficiently as shared hate, and that is even truer for demons.

To most inhabitants of Hell, Crowley seemed positively antisocial in her unwillingness to participate in normal forms of bonding. There were, however, a few others who would rather work over-overtime (overtime was standard in Hell) at the lowest administration departments than bond by bullying or competition.

Six thousand years is a long time to avoid starting at least an acquaintanceship with one of your co-workers, even if you’re an immortal being. It’s also a long time to go with only one friend, whom you see once a century and who won’t even acknowledge you’re friends most of the time.

So when she ran into Ruzgar in fifth-century Alexandria and the demon started complaining about being terrorised by the newly appointed Duke Ligur and having to perform far more difficult tasks than her colleagues, Crowley listened, nodded at all the right places and didn’t tell her to go bother someone else.

“Recently I’ve had to sic a whole mob of humans against another human. A whole mob!” the grey-haired demon griped.

Crowley hummed. “Who was the victim?”

Ruzgar shrugged. “I believe they call it a philosopher. She was pagan and the mob was Christian. Practically got my work cut out for me. But still.”

Crowley took a sip of sweet wine. “And this mob, they killed that human?”

Ruzgar furrowed her eyebrows as if she didn’t understand the question. “What else? Why are you asking? I’m complaining here, and you’re just asking stupid questions.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who wanted to talk. I’ve got better things to do than sit around talking to low-ranking demons.”

“You’re low-ranking yourself, you arse. Don’t think I don’t know that.”

Insulting each other was a form of demons’ social grooming. “Well, that doesn’t change I’ve got better things to do. If you’ve got problems with my company, you’re very welcome to sod off.”

By way of response, Ruzgar nodded at the cylindrical amphora on the table, which she’d invited herself to minutes ago, “Pour me some more of that.”

Crowley did – she wanted to ask further questions about this murdered philosopher anyway.

Ruzgar and she tolerated each other from that point onwards. The other demon was annoying and wont to complain for hours, and the last time she’d thought about anything in any depth had likely been when she’d got chucked out of Heaven, but at least her idea of a good time didn’t include creatively disposing of Disposable Demons.

* * *

Aziraphale went to the kitchenette and put the kettle on, allowing Crowley and Ruzgar to catch up.

“What the bloody Heaven are you wearing, anyway?” Crowley asked after she’d switched on the lights in the backroom and had sprawled her limbs all over the sofa. Ruzgar settled into one of the cosy armchairs, tense and fidgeting.

Ruzgar looked down at herself – most of her form was hidden by the atrocious buttoned-up leather trench coat, from under which ratty blue jeans and turquoise trainers peeked out. She hadn’t taken off her hat or sunglasses.

“I mean, I’m used to your utter lack of fashion sense,” Crowley proceeded, gesturing at the trench coat, jeans and trainers combo, “but the fancy headdress makes it look as though you’re actually attempting to make an impression. Failing, by the way, whatever you’re trying to do.”

“Shut up. I saw this huge picture on the side of the road,” Ruzgar explained. Her posture relaxed – the insulting remarks seemed to have set her at ease.

“A billboard?”

Ruzgar shrugged. “No clue what it’s called. There were some humans on it. I got inspired.”

“Oh Heaven no. Guns ‘n’ Roses are back in vogue, aren’t they.”

“Oh yeah!” Ruzgar exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. Her teeth were crooked and yellow but, pleasantly enough, weren’t crawling with maggots. “That’s what the sign said.”

Aziraphale entered the room, carrying a tray with a teapot, cups and sugar. She set it on the table and nestled herself close to Crowley on the sofa before pouring each of them a cup of tea.

Ruzgar held the fragile china cup, which Aziraphale had handed to her, by its thin handle and stared into it.

“You’re supposed to drink that,” Crowley instructed. “Though I’d wait a bit. It’s hot.”

“It’s not, you know,” Ruzgar squeaked, “holy?”

Crowley snorted.

“Don’t worry,” Aziraphale reassured. “It’s perfectly ordinary tea. However, you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to, of course.”

She gave Ruzgar a smile which rapidly turned sour – the demon’s soggy clothes were drenching the armchair’s upholstery, and was that a spider crawling from beneath the collar of her coat?

Ruzgar surveyed Crowley’s movements closely as the latter brought the cup to her lips and took a sip. When nothing of a destructive persuasion occurred, Ruzgar copied the action.

“It doesn’t taste like anything,” she concluded, puzzled.

Crowley turned to her with a shrug. “It’s a human thing. So, spill. Why exactly are you here? Oh, wait a minute, does anyone know you are?”

Ruzgar shook her head. “Nobody knows. I had some work to do topside and was done with it quickly, so I don’t think anyone has a reason to suspect I’m doing anything subversive.”

Crowley sized her up with a raised eyebrow. “Wow, Ruzgar. Thinking for yourself now?”

“Go to Heaven, you snake. We aren’t all insane like you and your angel lady friend.”

Crowley had to fight a tiny smile. “Have all of you down there turned into gossips now?”

“Being employed by Hell does that to you. In fact, it’s why I’m here, more or less. You two are still a bit of a hot topic.”

“Even after two years?” Crowley asked, head tilted.

“Yeah. That’s the problem. The likes of Duke Hastur and his cronies think so, at least. Demons won’t stop talking about the traitors who got their happily ever after and are being left alone. You know, it’s making a lot of them think they could get away with desertion somehow.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. “You included?”

“As if,” Ruzgar scoffed, making a dismissive gesture with her hand. “I’m not a naïve fool. All there is for me is Hell. I am a part of Hell. You managed to leave because you were lucky, but what for? Slacking among the humans for eternity?”

“There are plenty of things to do on Earth,” Crowley replied evenly. “But do get to the point.”

“Well, ah.” Ruzgar took a sip of her tea and grimaced. “You’re not going to like this. You see, I’ve worked my way up since we last spoke, so now I get to all sorts of information. I heard Hastur and a few other high-ups talking about their plans for you. They’re willing to go against Lord Beelzebub’s orders to get revenge on you. They want to reinstate you.”

“Reinstate me?”

“Yeah. They don’t want to kill you. That’d make you a martyr or something. So instead, they want to kidnap you and lock you up until you’re a proper demon again. As far as I understand, they think your holy water immunity has got to do something with madam here.” She indicated Aziraphale with a jerk of her head. A couple of small redback spiders started making their way up her neck from underneath her collar. She didn’t appear to notice them. “They think if they separate the two of you, lock you up for a long enough time and give you a few hellfire showers, the immunity will, you know, evaporate. And then they’ll make you their puppet, standing guard at the gates of Nether Hell for eternity.”

Crowley chewed her lip. “Why are you telling me this?”

Ruzgar shrugged. A tarantula which had settled on her shoulder stared confusedly as it bounced up and down. “I don’t like Hastur. You hear all sorts of things on smoking breaks, you know. Demons who work under him complain he’s got even worse since you killed his pal. Thanks for that, by the way. Good riddance.”

Crowley grimaced, looking downwards.

Ruzgar examined the porcelain sugar bowl on the tea tray and lifted its lid. She curiously contemplated the sugar cubes within and then started putting them into her tea one by one. Aziraphale stared, horrified, as she gradually dumped six cubes into the small cup.

She took a small sip of the concoction, smacked her lips and continued, “Plus, we’re friends, aren’t we? We’re the outsiders. I’m not an outsider to the point where I’d want to leave, but I get why you do. Hell has to exist, and it’s where I belong, but the way I see it, you shouldn’t be forced to stay with us. Especially not after you’ve accomplished such a feat.”

“What do you mean, precisely?” Crowley asked nonchalantly.

Ruzgar peered at her through her teashades. “Well, duh, an angel and a demon? Cooperating and getting more powerful because of it?”

Crowley stared into her empty cup, the corners of her lips slightly downturned in thought. “Right.”

“Also, an angel and a demon in love. There are going to be so many pulp novels.” Ruzgar made a sweeping gesture and grinned, showing off her teeth and the wide gaps between them. “Eric is already writing one.”

“Excuse me,” Aziraphale cut in incredulously, “demons write novels?”

Crowley groaned. “You really, really can’t call it novels. Not even bad novels. Imagine the worst thing you’ve ever read on Earth – got it? – now imagine it being a million times worse.”

“Still, it’s unexpected,” said Aziraphale, who clearly lacked the experience of reading one’s literary attempts produced in one’s early teens, and therefore wasn’t properly horrified.

“The primary function of the pulp fiction was to desecrate Enochian,” Crowley elaborated. “So, its purpose is literally to be as awful as possible. The writing offends even me, and the plots, if you’re generous enough to call them that, are straight from the deepest pits of Hell. Trust me, be glad you’ve never encountered it. I’m scarred for life.”

“I happen to like it,” Ruzgar replied defiantly and addressed Aziraphale, “If you want, I can recommend you my favourites.”

“Oh no you don’t. Seriously, no. Don’t you dare,” Crowley protested vehemently.

“Anyway, the angel and demon ones are probably going to get banned,” Ruzgar continued. “Unless they’re violent enough and the angel gets murdered in the end, I guess.”

“Good Lord,” Aziraphale said, eyes wide.

“So, back to what I was saying. I think the Duke and his buddies want to drag Crowley back to Hell and keep her there if possible.”

Crowley leant back against the sofa, jaw set. “What about Heaven? Are they in on it?”

“No idea. What I’ve told you is all I know. So just… live in each other’s pockets and hope for the best.”

“Thanks for the priceless advice,” Crowley snarked.

“No, really, thank you,” Aziraphale took over. “We’re much obliged to you for disclosing that kind of information to us. I hope it’s not putting you in danger.”

Ruzgar stared at Aziraphale, flabbergasted, as if the angel had spoken a foreign language. She directed her sunglasses-covered eyes back at Crowley to return to familiar ground. “Anyway, it might be too late. Hastur’s already rallying his sidekicks.”

Crowley frowned. “Yeah?”

“Most of them are scared shitless of interacting with you _and_ going against Lord Beelzebub’s orders. But now they really seem to be gearing up for it.”

“Right,” Crowley said, too alarmed to be flattered.

Ruzgar was silent for a few seconds before concluding, “Well, that’s about it. I ought to be going before Gava comes prowling around looking for me. My new boss, you know. Total arsehole.”

She stood up, picked up the tarantula from her shoulder and stuck it unceremoniously in one of her coat pockets. “See you around, then. Or, hopefully not, I guess?”

“It was nice meeting you,” Aziraphale said, as warmly as she could muster confronted with the sight of dirty footsteps on floorboards and damp upholstery.

“Yeah, good chat,” Crowley said.

Ruzgar stomped across the room, trainers squeaking on the wooden floor. She flung open the door and vanished into the night.

The door remained agape, letting in the cool air of an autumn night.

“Her manners leave a lot to be desired,” Aziraphale commented before heading over to close the door. “But otherwise, she seemed quite nice for a demon.”

“You don’t work your way up in Hell by being nice,” Crowley replied. “She’s probably behind some of humanity’s worst. But yeah, she can be decent when she feels like it, I guess. Anyway, now that the social visit’s over, I’m going back to bed.”

Aziraphale raised her eyebrows. “Now? Shouldn’t we discuss what your friend told us?”

“Sure. But first I want to lie down with some warm blankets. It is autumn, you know. Gets chilly.”

The covers in the upstairs bedroom have grown cold in the meantime. They burrowed under them after Crowley changed back into her silken black nightgown and persuaded Aziraphale to put on her own soft pyjamas as well. They didn’t bother switching on the bedside lamp.

“Do you think she was telling the truth?” the angel queried once she stopped fidgeting and settled to lie on her side, facing Crowley, who was contemplating the ceiling.

“Honestly, no clue. But I don’t know what she’d be gaining if she were lying.”

“That’s what I was thinking. If it were a ploy, she’d want us to walk into a trap or make a mistake, wouldn’t she? But she didn’t leave any specific instructions. It was just a warning.”

Crowley hummed. “Well, even if she were telling the truth, what is there to do about it? Hell wants to drag me back and believes it can’t because we pulled a trick. They could barge in right now and find out Hastur was actually right the whole time, the bastard.”

The sheets rustled as she turned to face Aziraphale. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough to make out the angel’s features. Her halo of gravity-defying black curls was squashed against the pillow on one side. In the lack of light, the white of her eyes stood out against her dark iris and complexion, whose chocolate-brown shade wasn’t discernible with the limitations of human night vision. There was something undeniably ethereal about the peaceful image she made, resting on her hip with knees bent and her hand placed in front of her cheek on the mattress.

“I thought – I actually thought we were safe, angel,” she added in a whisper. She was mesmerised by Aziraphale and her closeness, which was still such a novelty. She wanted to be allowed to revel in it for far, far longer, and she intended to secure that privilege for herself whatever it took.

“If Ruzgar spoke true,” the angel began quietly, “Hell thinks we’re invincible when we’re together. The way she put it, even Hastur thinks so. They think they have to separate us from one another in order to do us any harm.” Her voice had gained a sly edge, as if she were on to something. “What if we became inseparable?”

“What do you mean?”

“Human souls do it all the time. Nobody but the two souls in question can enter the contract, and nobody but them can revoke it.”

Crowley hummed in an unimpressed manner. “Marriage, right. Because that works out so well all the time.”

Aziraphale tutted. “Well, they often do it wrong.”

“Oh, yeah, wrong. Bloody arranged marriages and, and fucking… fucking _giving_ the bride to the fucking groom, and that marry-the-rapist shit – you know, all things considered, I’m surprised humans still buy into it even now. Women especially.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said calmly, “some of them probably don’t. Some are lucky enough to get it right.”

Crowley had the vague urge to scream but took a deep breath instead. Moments like these reminded her which one of them had Fallen and why she’d do it all over again. “Anyway, we don’t have human souls,” she pointed out.

“Angels can bond in a similar way, too. Though without the – well, the bad connotations, and in a way that affects both sides equally.” There was tentativeness in her tone, and Crowley heard her swallow nervously before continuing, “Some angels did it before the War. Do you remember?”

Crowley shook her head. “I suppose I was too busy hanging out with the wrong crowd. I don’t think any of them did anything of the sort.”

“It was shown to us by a Throne, who’d got the knowledge directly from God.”

* * *

Many a philosopher in the history of humankind has mused upon the origin of romantic love. One of the most popular and entertaining theories has been formulated by Aristophanes, who was of the opinion that love between two beings existed in fact because they used to be one being in the past and wished to regain integrity.

That was about as wrong as that idea some guys had about creating one person and then crafting another from their rib, but at least Aristophanes didn’t sell it as the word of God.

The truth is that bonds between two beings have got a longer history than humankind anyway. Humans have inadvertently replicated the precursor of romantic love once, actually. It was the Ancient Greeks’ idea, yet again; the Thebans’, to be precise. Their Sacred Band, a military corps composed of pairs of lovers, was founded on the notion that humans would be more efficient in killing other humans if they fought alongside their other half. This principle resembled a watered-down version of a ritual employed by the Army of Heaven.

Lucifer’s troops were assembling, and their number was growing every figurative second. Doubt spread over angelic ranks like an infectious disease, and many of the faithful experienced fear for the first time. What if they lost? What if Heaven fell? There would be no harmony, no one to sing God praises, divine light would be forever impugned, God’s omnipresence disputed. They pleaded with God to help them in this trial.

Aziraphale kept vigil on the margins of reality with the other Principalities who still awaited the assignment of their tasks. Close to them, Powers, Dominions and Virtues sharpened their transdimensional lances, arrows and longswords, and breathed holy fire into them.

A Throne descended to stand before them, a great, space-time bending colossus of wheels with as many eyes as those of all the Principalities combined.

“I come bearing a message from God,” they boomed. The Principalities shrunk back instinctively at the voice, which Aziraphale upon later consideration would liken to an incredibly loud train horn; all of them, however, listened with the utmost attention.

“Hear Her word: ‘Bond yourself to another in My eyes and in the presence of your siblings, and you shall become more powerful than you are when existing separately.’”

With that, the Throne took a leap up and disappeared, leaving behind a scroll which fluttered through the ether into the waiting hands of a Virtue.

The angels of the second sphere immediately started discussing what they’d heard and clustered around the scroll.

The instructions on it showed the ritual to be a pretty straightforward matter. The only requirement appeared to be for the two uniting angels to proclaim simultaneously, “I chose to be bonded to you in the eyes of God,” and for their siblings to reply with, “We acknowledge your union.”

The angels trusted God’s advice without any reservations and got to proclaiming themselves bonded. The Principalities stood back awkwardly, not certain the ritual was meant for them as well.

Aziraphale watched and thought it seemed all too easy, too good to be that simple. The pairs of angels appeared to become mightier and brighter after performing the ritual. Their wings shone with nacreous colours never seen before, and their halos, which were often larger than the rest of their angelic bodies, seemed nigh blinding. The couples proved to be faultlessly synchronised, and the way divine power surged around them made them appear invincible in Aziraphale’s eyes.

She wondered how they felt.

“Probably like angels on steroids,” Crowley butted in to say.

After the army led by Michael forced the rebels to choose between being obliterated and plummeting down into the embrace of darkness, the victorious angels were left to count themselves to ascertain the number of casualties.

Aziraphale stood shivering, staring at her sword coated in ichor. She’d burned and killed a rebel Virtue and a Principality. She’d had no choice, she told herself. It was either that or being faced with the choice of death or rejection of Heaven. And she couldn’t choose the latter if she wanted to remain loyal to God.

She wondered if some of her comrades-in-arms switched sides when faced with the certainty of absolute destruction. She also reflected on how the bonded angels who’d lost their other half were faring.

Soon, she realised there weren’t any. There were no halves of a union; there were either pairs who’d survived or pairs who hadn’t.

“It’s the nature of the bond,” a Power holding a broken lance said to the Dominions counting the survivors. Aziraphale remembered his name to be Haamiah. “One can’t survive when the other dies. I saw it with all of my eyes. A rebel drove a sword through my sibling, and her bonded one faded from existence the moment she did despite being unscathed.”

Other angels seconded Haamiah’s claim. From then on, angels became more careful about entering into alliances. On one hand, they became stronger and much more difficult to defeat, but if a foe killed one of them, it meant killing two with a single blow.

In the centuries leading up to Armageddon, divine unions regained some of their popularity. An entire unit of Heaven’s Department of Defence – they’d borrowed the human governments’ tactic of appearing less militant by naming anything concerning war using the word “defence”– was dedicated to the testing of advantages stemming from having bonded angels in their ranks. They studied contingencies with varying numbers of paired angels and different ranks of those who were bonded.

In the early 1700s, Uriel paid Aziraphale a visit, bringing a recommendation concerning angelic bonds.

“The Department of Defence has decided we should encourage unions between lower angels, especially angels of the first sphere, including Principalities,” the Archangel informed her.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, surprised, and took the envelope Uriel handed her. “Thank you.”

“It’s not obligatory, for now,” Uriel continued. “We’ll see how many angels will choose to do it voluntarily. We have evidence that an alliance works better if both parties have an interest in it.”

That was a relief, since there was only one creature in existence Aziraphale wouldn’t mind being irrevocably bonded to, and she didn’t think Head Office would be thrilled to know about _that_.

It was at that point of the narration that Crowley interrupted her once again. “Don’t do that,” she mumbled.

“Do what?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley propped herself up on one elbow. “You couldn’t have thought that in the seventeen hundreds.”

“My dear, I assure you I very much did. I don’t know why you still don’t believe me. Can I continue?”

Instead of answering, Crowley leaned over her and kissed her gently. Aziraphale put her hand on the demon’s nape, and they spent the next moments trading slow kisses which made Crowley warm and her chest feel as if it were thrumming.

Crowley drew apart after a while, feeling as if she wouldn’t be able to stop for another few days if she didn’t now. “You were saying?” she prompted in a hushed voice.

Aziraphale didn’t move her hands from the demon’s neck or her side and pulled her down to lie on top of her. Crowley made herself comfortable, and Aziraphale began caressing her hair, which Crowley had let grow out recently and which cascaded in dark brown waves over her back and shoulders. She looked as she had the very first time they’d met, and that fact made something terribly tender unfurl in Aziraphale’s core.

It took her a few seconds to remember where she’d left off, but at last she continued the story. There was still an important bit to explain left.

* * *

Aziraphale carried the envelope inside the bookshop, breaking the golden seal of the Department of Defence. The letter inside contained the explanation of the bonding ritual and said what Uriel had told her, except in a lot of unnecessary, long-winded sentences.

One piece of information, however, was new to her.

_According to the research of the Angelic Unions Unit, bonded angels can’t exist in different planes of reality. E. g. when one of the pair visits Earth, the other one has to go with them; if one is held hostage in Hell, the other will be automatically transported there as well, although not necessarily to the same place. We believe this fact to be the reason why bonded angels follow one another to non-existence._

“So you propose we get angel-hitched?” Crowley mumbled into Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale opened her mouth to protest the wording but thought better of it. “It’s just an idea I had. I don’t know if it wouldn’t harm you, and then, if it would work.” She paused and then added, “We’d have to test it first, so you wouldn’t get hurt. There’s another complication I haven’t mentioned yet. Let me finish.”

It seemed a sufficient number of angels formed alliances of their own volition, since Aziraphale didn’t receive any official information or decrees regarding them from then on. However, someone Up There had apparently proclaimed her an expert on Earth, because from time to time, the bookshop was assailed by angels inquiring after the best church they could use as their bonding place.

“A church?” Aziraphale asked, eyebrows furrowed, the first time she heard the question. “I thought the rituals were executed in Heaven, not on Earth.”

The inquirer was a fellow Principality who’d barged in without so much as a knock. If she remembered correctly, he was one of those assigned to work on the South American continent, although he didn’t act like someone who’d spent much time on Earth at all. He probably worked from his Heavenly office as was the custom these days.

“Yeah,” he said. “But you know, we’re Principalities. We’ve got to show how tied we are to the Earth and whatnot. Me and my friend,” he indicated the angel in a long, beige dress currently eyeing Aziraphale’s bookshelves distrustfully and resting her folded lace parasol over one shoulder as if it were a sword, “we thought it’d be symbolic to get bonded here. Very Earth-bound, we are.” He chuckled.

Aziraphale suppressed her distaste. “Oh,” she said before plastering a smile on her face. “Well, there are plenty of churches in London. The closest one is probably Saint Anne’s. A lovely place just around the corner. And it got a new tower a few years back.”

“Sounds great,” the angel said, grinning in satisfaction.

Encounters of this kind abounded through the 19th and 20th centuries to the extent that Aziraphale came to the conclusion bonding in churches had become a fashion trend among the first sphere angels.

“Well, at least we wouldn’t have to sneak into Heaven,” Crowley said. “I can withstand being in a church for some time.”

“I have no idea how long the ritual would take,” Aziraphale replied. “I’m not letting you take that risk.”

They lay silently, Aziraphale once again beginning to comb her fingers through Crowley’s silky hair. “It was just something that popped into my head,” she said then, as if feeling the need to defend herself. “Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything. I don’t even know if it would work, and it could hurt you.”

“Hey, no, I like it,” Crowley mumbled, almost purring under Aziraphale’s gentle ministrations.

A light bulb flickered on in her head. She lifted herself on her arms and stared down at Aziraphale with a grin spreading on her lips.

“I’ve got an idea. About the church thing.”

Aziraphale watched her. “Hm?”

“I know a place.”

* * *

“Was it a strange dream or did we really decide to go halfway across Europe to perform a ritual we don’t know will work?” Aziraphale asked in the morning, taking a sip of cocoa. They’d just woken up from the nap Crowley had roped Aziraphale into.

“Not a dream,” Crowley replied, her head propped on her palm, elbow resting on the desk at which they were sitting. The Sun had risen, and its rays seeped into the room, softened by the light-coloured roller blinds. “It’s not a big deal, angel. People go to foreign countries for their weddings all the time.”

Aziraphale covered her face with her hands. “It’s a thirteen-hour drive.”

“Don’t insult me, angel. Google Maps say it’s thirteen hours. We’ll be there in ten.”

Aziraphale lowered her hands, folding them on the desk. “Don’t you dare, Crowley.”

“Well, you’re the one griping about the long journey,” Crowley defended herself. “I’m just telling you I’ll get us there faster. Anyway, if we set off in the morning, we’ll arrive around nightfall, just in time to sneak in.”

“I’ve given that a bit of a thought,” Aziraphale replied. “The sneaking in. If anyone’s keeping tabs on us, we might want to avoid any sort of miracles for the time being.”

“Oh, so what do you propose? Calling ahead to book the chapel?” Crowley scoffed.

Aziraphale shrugged. “That is in fact what I was about to suggest.”

Crowley closed her eyes. “Ugh. Right. If you insist. You speak the lingo?”

“Sorry, where did you say it was again, dear?”

“Czechia.”

Aziraphale frowned. “You mean Czechoslovakia?”

“Yeah, not really,” Crowley said, having expected that exact reaction. “When was the last time you looked at a map?”

“I’d like to inform you I, in fact, own several maps.”

“Any from this century?”

“I won’t rise to your mockery,” Aziraphale replied primly. “I’m not uninformed. I’d wager I know more than you do about the fall of Austria-Hungary and the resulting nation-states.”

“Well, that’s probably true. That was roughly a hundred years ago, though. A lot has happened since then.”

Aziraphale looked affronted. “Well, excuse me for not being everywhere in the world at once.”

Crowley grinned and leant over to place a kiss on her cheek.

“Stop patronising me, fiend,” Aziraphale huffed.

“I’m not!” Crowley protested vehemently. “Seriously. I just – angel. You know I love you.” Her face felt hot.

Aziraphale’s shining dark eyes locked with hers. “Enough to get bonded to me in a divine ritual?”

“More than enough.”

They concluded soon afterwards that neither of them spoke the language, apart from a few useless sentences Crowley recalled from a phrase book issued by Hell about a thousand years ago.

“I think I could piece together ‘worship Satan’ or ‘kill thy neighbour’.”

“Well, no matter. We’ll try the languages we know. Have you found a telephone number we can call?”

“Hang on,” Crowley said, digging her phone out of her pocket.

She found the castle’s official website fairly quickly. Its background featured a few devil masquerade masks, and the header read _Houska Castle - Gate to Hell_. “Well, would you look at that. What had them shaking in fear in the thirteenth century becomes a marketing tactic in the twenty-first,” she remarked before trying to make sense of the page badly translated by Google. “Here, weddings in chateau.”

She’d nearly dialled the number when Aziraphale interrupted her.

“Oh! Wait, Crowley. We can’t call to book a _wedding_.”

Crowley rolled her eyes. “Well, what do you propose? Saying we want to have there a house party? I doubt they care if it’s a wedding or a divine slash infernal binding of transdimensional essences.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Aziraphale replied. “It’s just that marriages aren’t legal there.”

Crowley’s forehead scrunched up. With emphasis on every word, she asked, “ _Marriages aren’t legal_?”

“Same-sex marriages, dear,” Aziraphale explained long-sufferingly.

Crowley stared at her and then looked down at herself, as if suddenly realising that yes, they were in fact both very much female-shaped. “Oh.”

“Yes. We’ll have to say it’s a civil partnership ceremony.”

“Civil partnership,” Crowley repeated slowly. “Right.” Then, indicating Aziraphale’s usual brown trousers and waistcoat, added, “They won’t arrest you for cross-dressing or anything over there, will they?”

Aziraphale rolled her eyes. “Don’t be absurd. Of the two of us, the only one who’s ever been arrested for cross-dressing is you.”

“It’s not my fault Victorian London was full of stuck-up pricks with deluded notions about womankind. Hold up, though. If marriages aren’t legal, will they even let us have a ceremony in the chapel at all? I mean, won’t that offend the church’s sensibilities and whatnot?”

Aziraphale frowned thoughtfully for a while. “You know what, Crowley, let’s just sneak into the castle,” she said at last.

“I knew you’d come around,” Crowley grinned. “It’ll be just a few doors to open. I doubt anyone will notice.”

Aziraphale sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

“Explain to me one thing, angel,” Crowley said wonderingly. “You don’t know the country’s name, but you know same-sex marriage isn’t legal there?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I don’t choose what my mind remembers and what it forgets.”

“You sure about that?” Crowley smirked. “Anyway, when are we going then?”

“I was thinking now?”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “Now?”

“Well, the sooner we try the better, isn’t it? Especially if we find out it doesn’t work in the end.”

Crowley couldn’t argue with that.

* * *

Every once in a while, infernal employees needed a few days off from all the tempting, wiling and desecrating. They even had a department dealing with holidaymaking, the Department for Leisure Evil.

The name alone betrayed that most demons didn’t know how to relax. Even on holiday, there was an itch under their skin which forced them to tempt a few humans to at least venial sins in between periods of moonbathing. (As a rule, demons did not sunbathe.)

Crowley engaged in leisure evil to keep up appearances. In the Middle Ages, she’d gone with the fashion and frequently picked haunting.

“Crowley. What a surprise to see you underground for once. Going slacking again?” A voice which sounded as if coming out of the throat of a diseased frog said on her right. If even frogs had throats.

Crowley turned and was met with the sight of Hastur’s unkempt face. In his hand he was clutching a grimy sheet of paper identical to Crowley’s. Paper was a novelty in Hell. Its use had been spreading over the world for a few centuries already, and Hell had recently come to the conclusion that it would make creating superfluous documents much easier.

“Same as you,” Crowley replied curtly, nodding in the direction of Hastur’s permit. Even a Duke of Hell had to go through the process. He probably enjoyed it in a masochistic way. “Your Disgrace,” she added dutifully.

Hastur plopped down on the other end of the uncomfortable wooden bench where Crowley was sitting. He stank as if he’d been bathing in the Styx. Crowley scrunched up her nose and leant back against the cold stone wall of the waiting room.

“So what’s your leisure evil of choice, Crowley?” Hastur inquired hostilely, tacking her name to the end of the question like a threat.

“Haunting,” Crowley replied neutrally.

“I’m more for fumaroles, myself,” Hastur said. Crowley stared at the opposite slimy wall and attempted to puzzle out why the Heaven Hastur was making small talk. “I’ve got quite good at crafting them, if I say so myself. It’s very therapeutic, you know, tearing up some crust and letting sulphur leak into the atmosphere. I’m going to, wossit called, Iceland this time.”

Shit, she should have known. Everyone was going to Iceland these days – and it showed. In the past, it had been just a harmless demonic playground, everyone going nuts with volcanoes, but now that some poor buggers had settled there, it could have serious consequences. She’d thought the island could use some haunting as well; they had to be sick of volcanic activity over there. It had nothing to do with taking up space others could have used to cause an eruption which would destroy the small population.

She’d have to think of another destination; there was no way in Heaven she’d willingly exist in a three hundred mile radius of Hastur. It was a pity, though – she’d already visited the Mortal Language Service to pick up Icelandic. They’d dug out a Seventh Circle resident who spoke the language and made the soul share its knowledge. Needless to say, they hadn’t asked nicely.

“Uh, good for you, Your Disgrace,” she responded.

The closest door creaked open and a DLE employee peeked out. When he saw Hastur, he hurriedly straightened his posture and stiffly bowed. “Your Disgrace, we’re delighted to, to offer you our services –”

Hastur rose from the bench. “Yeah, yeah. Get on with it.” He shouldered past the scrawny DLE demon into the office.

He emerged a mere Earthly minute later, carrying a thin stack of papers. The DLE employee ambled out after him, beckoning for Crowley to follow him into the office with a disinterested jerk of his head.

He presented Crowley with a globe, and she pointed randomly somewhere in the middle of the European continent. It didn’t matter where you went anyway, and she’d only stay for a couple of days to show that she was a demony demon who liked demony things. Another office employee handed her a battered phrase book, which she accepted despite knowing it contained a useless mishmash of sentences and words in different languages listed in no order whatsoever. If she were lucky, she’d find how to say “Hell” in the language of wherever she’d turn up.

The year of our Lord was 895, and it was, coincidentally, a dark and stormy night above a simple stronghold in the shrubby woods of Central Europe. Thunder concealed the sound of rocks tearing, crumbling and deforming as they parted. The ground shifted. A young woman carrying a pail of fresh water through the gale stumbled, and the liquid sloshed over the rim. She steadied herself against the wooden bulwark of the fort. The ground moved again and the woman lost her footing, the pail tumbling down and spilling its contents on the already soaked soil and her long woollen dress.

She stared at the rift in the ground, and her breath stopped in her chest when she saw a figure claw its way out of it.

Christianity was a novelty in those parts at the time; therefore, she debated for a few seconds what the correct course of action for a proper God-fearing person was. Brandishing a cross seemed quite ineffectual, so she ran.

Crowley blessed once she took account of her surroundings. Just her luck to emerge in the middle of a human settlement, during a downpour no less. She looked at the pail lying abandoned in the mud. She’d better leave the crime scene before the woman returned, armed and/or with reinforcements.

When a gaggle of figures huddled in heavy cloaks and carrying spears stormed the area by the bulwark, Crowley was long gone. Raindrops gleamed on spearheads reflecting torch flames. Crowley weaved her way through narrow streets between stone-and-wood houses, searching for a tavern.

She resolved to stay at a dingy inn within the settlement, seeing as there seemed to be no other village nearby. She assured herself of that fact during her numerous walks through the surrounding forest. In the evenings, she sat at the inn with a leather jack full of beer and fretted over plans to get on with the actual haunting business.

She soon found out she wouldn’t need to lift a finger; the humans had already started weaving tales. The strange traveller in black robes signalling high status, who had strange cat-like eyes, had been a suspicious addition to the fort the day a rift had opened in the earth and a trustworthy inhabitant had witnessed a figure climbing out.

Crowley left after three days, not keen on waiting around to get discorporated by a few well-meaning peasants with pitchforks.

Upon her return to Hell, a Disposable Demon, in the shape of a long-haired blond boy at the time, brought her a form inquiring after her holiday.

“It’s a new thing the DLE have established,” he explained.

RATE YOUR STAY, was all it said, the text written in the middle of the paper in letters meant to look ornate but failing. The penmanship of most inhabitants of Hell resembled that of human children in the process of learning how to write. Underneath, five inverted pentagrams were depicted.

“You’re supposed to circle those,” the Disposable Demon explained, pointing excitedly at the pentagrams.

Crowley took the quill lying around on her desk, dipped it in an inkwell and circled all five stars, not particularly inclined to give the assessment a serious thought. She shoved the paper at the Disposable Demon, and he disappeared.

She couldn’t wait to return to Earth and get some sleep. Infernal holidays were exhausting.

Crowley’s appearance in the middle of the settlement sparked many a local legend. Both the brave and the cowardly avoided the rip in the ground and whispered about the origins of the strange woman with eyes like a cat’s or a reptile’s. The most popular theory spoke of her being half-human and half-animal, a creature woven from the deepest darkness the world contained in its basest layers. They surmised she must have crawled out of the Pit itself.

Demons soon started flocking into the resort rated with five pentagrams – apparently, it wasn’t customary to grant your holiday destination such a high score. The confusion in the rating system led to most demons sticking to three stars at all times to play it safe. Everyone seemed bent on finding out whether five pentagrams meant the place was exceptionally bad or exceptionally good.

A couple of uncouth haunting trips from various low-ranking demons later, people started keeping watch around the hole in the ground at all times. Spears were pointed downwards to quickly dispose of anything that tried to clamber out. Imps dug out a cave beneath the shaft leading to the surface and amused themselves by making questionable noises from there.

It didn’t take a long time for the locals to completely abandon the settlement. To all mortals who resided in that part of Great Moravia, however diverse their faiths, it appeared crystal clear that the location of their fort had become haunted by frightful, malicious creatures.

* * *

Crowley chose to visit the place once again at the end of the worst century in human history thus far. She didn’t know what she’d find – it was difficult to keep track of where the plague ravaged populations at any given moment at the time, but she’d heard the north of Bohemia was one of the luckier regions concerning at least the mid-century outbreak.

She didn’t take the shortcut from Hell she’d created a few centuries ago, seeing as there was now a waiting list for that particular haunting spot, and moreover, she didn’t want to risk discorporation.

She didn’t expect to discover a gloomy gothic castle at the location where the humble settlement had stood.

A rampart made up the front of it, and a four-sided tower loomed over its black roofs. Crowley could discern guards with crossbows standing both on top of the rampart and the tower. Strangely enough, it seemed that only half of them were facing the castle’s surroundings – the rest had their back to her and seemed to be aiming their weapons _inside_ the building, as if they strived to keep something from getting out. Seeing as the whole compound stank of Inferno, Crowley had a very good idea what that something was.

She used a whiff of magic to distract the guards. They suddenly noticed all of them had run out of bolts and left their positions in panicked search of new ones.

She sauntered through the gate embedded in the rampart, and the distinct smell of Hell – a musty mixture of brimstone and dampness – intensified. It was, however, much fainter than it had been when leaking through an uncovered crack in the ground.

The square courtyard she’d stepped into was enclosed by four walls, and she kept her head down as she traversed the space swarming with bustling servants and guards in desperate search of ammunition.

She was drawn towards one of the small wooden doors on the ground floor. She could sense the occult energy increasing as she neared it – she was certain it must be hiding the rift.

She pushed the door open and froze in the doorway of what appeared to be a chapel. The small shrine made her feel nauseous the way holy places always did. At the same time, the smell of brimstone was so strong she’d almost believe to be standing in one of Hell’s hallways.

She had to give it to the humans – sealing a tunnel leading to Hell with a sanctuary was a clever idea. On the other hand, it took more than just a layer of stone to stop evil, and now they had one of Hell’s top holiday resorts directly under their feet when they gathered for mass.

Curiosity took over and she stepped inside. Instead of scorching with holiness, the floor invigorated her like a leisurely flame of hellfire.

* * *

They managed the journey to the castle in eleven hours, even with Crowley’s bout of driving under the speed limit – this memorable event occurred after disembarking from the shuttle train which had carried them through the Chunnel; Crowley got momentarily uneasy about having to drive on the right like the majority of the world population.

They’d left London in the morning, and the Sun had already set when they sighted a faded green roof on their right. It protruded from the side of a flat hillock, dark treetops enveloping it and hiding the rest of the building. The scenery was barely visible in the vibrant orange glow left behind above the horizon.

“Aren’t we too early?” wondered Aziraphale.

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Crowley answered. She was in a sombre mood. The journey had been long, and it had granted her too much time for reflection. The longer she pondered their plan, the more ill-conceived it seemed.

The road sloping upwards, they reached an empty car park and a sign banning entry further up the road. Crowley pretended not to see it. They bumped along through the darkening forest on the now uneven, cracked concrete.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale frowned, turning her head to look at her. “What for?”

“Not you. The car.”

They parked in front of a wall flanking an iron forged gate. Crowley turned off the engine, and they set off towards the castle.

They strode through the gate, which opened with a creak that sliced through the deathly silence, making both of them wince. There were no signs of movement as they entered a small square with tall, expansive yew trees, thuyas and shaggy myrtle shrubs sprouting in its centre.

The castle enclosed the square from its far side. Aziraphale manifested a small circle of light, and it illuminated the faded frescoes on the castle’s façade, as well as its rectangular windows.

The edifice’s exterior had changed beyond recognition since Crowley had last visited. The tower and ramparts had vanished, and gothic funereal solemnity had been exchanged for the neat self-importance of the Renaissance. It occurred to her suddenly that the chapel’s tiles might have been successfully consecrated over the centuries. She reasoned that shouldn’t be the case, since haunting beneath the sanctuary still had its fans.

They approached the castle’s heavy wooden gate, and it flew open under the force of a subtle demonic miracle. They crossed a short corridor sealed with a modern turquoise door, which Crowley also nonchalantly unlocked, and emerged in a familiar, though reconstructed, square courtyard.

Across from them, Crowley sighted an inconspicuous door made of dark brown wooden planks. It had retained its shape from gothic times, and Crowley immediately recognised it, guided also by the promisingly strengthening stench of sulphur mixed with divinity.

They made a beeline for the door, passing a low water basin into which superstitious people dumped coins and where idiots deposited expired credit cards.

Crowley was reaching for the door handle when she heard voices. She stopped in her tracks and listened closely. The voices seemed to be coming from inside the chapel.

“What?” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley gestured with her hand for the angel to come closer.

They stuck their ears to the door, facing each other, and strained their senses; however, the voices were speaking too quietly to make out words. There was a lull in talking, and then a chorus of voices said in unison something that Crowley could swear was, “We acknowledge your union.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, and Crowley arched a brow. They regarded each other, waiting for the conversation to resume.

“Next!” someone inside yelled, drawing out the vowel and buzzing through the letter “x” in a way suspiciously reminiscent of Beelzebub’s drawl. Crowley felt the blood drain from her face.

She stepped away from the door and whispered, “I don’t like this. At all.”

“It would seem someone had the same idea as you did, dear,” Aziraphale whispered back. “Unless it’s angels in there, which seems unlikely if you’re willing to take my word for it.”

“It must be a new thing. I don’t remember ever hearing about demonic unions.” Crowley side-eyed the door. “As far as I remember, there was a pulpit in the chapel accessible from the first floor. We could hide there and see what this is about.”

Aziraphale sighed and swept imaginary dust from her waistcoat. “Espionage, really? I’d like to let you know I’m retired.”

The corners of Crowley’s lips quirked up. “Come on, angel. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

“Where it’s always been, I’m afraid.”

It took them about ten minutes to locate a door hiding a staircase. The steps, carved in stone, led up in a spiral. They emerged on a balcony which fringed the entirety of the first floor and overlooked the courtyard. To their right, directly above the main entrance to the chapel, there was a tiny wooden door, barely reaching up to Crowley’s chest. She opened it slowly, praying to whatever was listening that it wouldn’t creak. It opened silently.

The door was set in an alcove which was deep enough to hide two adult-sized beings. The pulpit was only a simple wooden balcony with a metal railing, fit at the very back of the chapel.

They listened to the now clear voices.

“I take this prick as my lawful husband or what,” someone grumbled before there was a sound like spitting on the floor.

“Take thiz seriouzly,” another voice drawled in a bored tone. It couldn’t have been anyone but Beelzebub. “For Hell’s sake.”

“I can’t say it!” the first voice protested, low-pitched and snappish.

There was a sigh of someone clearly undergoing severe suffering. “It seemzzz I have to remind you once again: it was hard work acquiring this intelligence. We need to uzzze this.”

There was silence and then another, muffled voice yelled, “Fuck!”

“Did you lick the wall?!” Beelzebub boomed. “The plazzzter is consecrated, you idiot.”

There was a muffled apology.

“Now, on with the ritual,” came the Lord of the Flies’ annoyed voice.

After a few beats in which there was some shifting and muttering, two voices – the snappish one and another, raspy one – muttered not entirely in unison, “I chose to be bonded to you.”

There was a grumbling, bored chorus of, “We acknowledge your union.”

“Sign there,” Beelzebub intoned. “Next!”

Crowley looked at Aziraphale, whose lips were pursed in thought. Crowley shrugged, to signal that she hadn’t known demons also performed a bonding ritual and that she had no idea how it could possibly work. Then she carefully peeked from behind the strip of wall.

The chapel appeared not to have changed much in the last six hundred years. The most notable difference looked to be the way the simple, artless paintings adorning the yellowish walls had faded. Only their grey outlines were visible, alongside a few patches of clinging remnants of colours. Most of the murals portrayed apostles, and there was also an obligatory tableau depicting the Archangel Michael slaying something that was supposed to be a dragon.

There were about ten demons crowded a safe distance away from the walls of the chapel, and another two who were signing a document held by a Disposable Demon. The Lord of the Flies lounged in a throne, posture sagging and looking exceptionally bored.

Aside from the Disposable Demon, all of the present demons were facing the front of the chapel, where an old stone altar with ornamentally carved flowers and leaves stood.

Another pair of demons stepped forward, and looking extremely uncomfortable, stood in front of each other.

Beelzebub sighed anew. “Hold handzzz,” she commanded monotonously.

The demons obeyed, linking their hands and simultaneously taking a step back to leave as much space as possible between them. They resembled a pair of zombies reaching for their victims.

They said the prescribed vows and the rest of the demons boomed their acknowledgement.

“That’s all, Lord Beelzebub,” chirped the Disposable Demon.

“Thank Satan,” replied Beelzebub. “Open the gate.”

A couple of demons scrambled to slide a portion of the tiled floor aside, revealing a part of the rift created by Crowley over a thousand years ago.

One by one, the demons disappeared in it, appearing to be descending a staircase.

“You,” Lord Beelzebub addressed the Disposable Demon, “stay here and tidy up.”

“Of course, Lord,” he nodded.

“Let’s go,” Crowley hissed into Aziraphale’s ear.

Aziraphale frowned. Crowley grabbed her hand and dragged her back outside.

“If we go down there now,” Crowley murmured conspiratorially, “we can convince Eric to add us to the list, and they’ll think we’re bonded.”

“You mean, we’re going to frighten him into doing it.”

Crowley rolled her eyes and tugged Aziraphale in the direction of the stairs. “Semantics.”

“I don’t like it, Crowley,” Aziraphale protested, panting as she followed the demon down the winding staircase.

“We won’t have such an opportunity again, angel.”

“It seems like too much of a provocation,” Aziraphale said. “I don’t think it’ll make Hastur leave you alone.”

Crowley stopped at the foot of the stairs, causing Aziraphale to collide with her.

“Crowley!” the angel chided sotto voce.

“You know what,” Crowley said, “let’s ask him first what he knows. Or bully him into giving us information, if you’ve got to be technical about it.”

This time, Crowley didn’t hesitate to push down the door handle and fling open the door. The hinges groaned unpleasantly, and Crowley ran into the room just as the Disposable Demon started backing away in the direction of the hole in the ground, clipboard clutched against his chest.

Crowley hurried over and gripped his upper arm. The demon’s eyes were large and terrified as he stared up at her.

“Look,” Crowley said in a low voice, “I won’t harm you if you answer a few questions.”

Aziraphale approached to plant herself at her side. Eric’s eyes flickered to the angel, growing ever wider.

“Oh shit, it’s… please don’t hurt me,” he shrieked.

“You aren’t in any danger,” Aziraphale assured him, lifting her hands in a placating gesture. Crowley elbowed her in the side. “If you – if you answer our questions, that is,” the angel hurried to add.

Crowley tightened her grip on his arm. “So, what do you know about Hastur? What is he planning?”

“I – I… don’t know –”

“You do know something. I know it.” She, of course, didn’t. “So, what is it?”

“I– he… he thinks you shouldn’t be out here. On Earth.”

“And?” Crowley pressed, not shifting her unblinking eyes away from his face.

“A– and he wants to lock you up. Under the Ninth Circle.” The Disposable Demon looked agonised, clearly envisioning his fate if Hastur found out he’d leaked the information.

Crowley turned her head to exchange a look with Aziraphale. “She wasn’t lying, it seems,” she drawled before turning back to Eric.

“Now you’ll do as I say,” she commanded and waited for the demon to nod frantically before continuing. “Take that piece of paper with the names, and put down ours nicely at the bottom of the list.”

“Crowley, I really don’t think that’s…” Aziraphale began.

“Trust me, angel.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Hastur doesn’t strike me as someone who could be intimidated this way, dear, that’s all.”

Crowley shrugged lazily. “I think he’s got his limits. You should have seen him when I killed Ligur.”

“Right then. Do what you will,” Aziraphale concluded haughtily.

Crowley raised her eyebrows at the Disposable Demon, who was following their exchange curiously. “Well, do get on with it. Our names. On the list.”

Eric looked around as if searching for the clipboard, before he remembered he’d been holding it the entire time.

“Oh.” He gave Crowley an awkward smile.

He pulled a pen from the pocket of his fashionable black trousers and uncapped it before scrawling Crowley’s name under the last couple’s. He hesitated then, pen hovering above the form.

“I– I, excuse me, uh, madam. I can’t remember how to write your name,” he stuttered, venturing a nervous glance at Aziraphale.

“It’s no problem,” Aziraphale said, giving him a strained smile. “I can write it myself.”

He handed her the pen, and Aziraphale neatly added her name next to Crowley’s in the pre-printed table. The word burned through the paper unlike the names before it, which had stayed on the page.

“Oops,” the Disposable Demon squeaked.

“Infernal paper,” Crowley muttered. “It figures.”

Eric wiped beads of sweat from his forehead. “Okay. Okay, can I please also ask for your signatures over there?” He pointed at the vacant boxes in the row where they’d written their names. “Maybe Miss, Miss Crowley’s – I’m sorry, I’m, ah, not up to date about forms of address – well, hers will suffice,” he babbled, chuckling awkwardly, “I’d be in trouble if the paper burned to ash.”

“Sure,” Crowley said, and scrawled her sigil over both of the empty boxes, and over three below it as well.

Eric eyed the oversized sigil with distress. “Oh, great,” he said in a high-pitched voice, taking the pen Crowley handed him back. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got to ask, though. Are you actually bonded?”

“That’s none of your business,” Crowley answered, just as Aziraphale blurted, “We’re about to be.”

They looked at each other.

“Aren’t we?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley dropped her gaze to the floor and then fixed it on Eric before turning back to Aziraphale. “We should discuss this in private.”

Eric raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I won’t say a thing. I mean, Hastur will probably kill me a few times, but he’d do that anyway. I’m rooting for you guys, so.”

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re what now?”

The Disposable Demon fidgeted, avoiding their eyes. “Well, you inspire my literary talent.”

Crowley covered her face with her hands. “Oh no, it’s the novels again, isn’t it?”

“You’ve heard about them?” Eric asked excitedly.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, don’t mention them in front of me ever again,” Crowley pleaded, voice muffled with her palms.

“Well,” Aziraphale began, “if you’re ‘rooting for us’ as you say, surely you’ll wait here until we discuss… what we need to discuss in private.”

Eric shrugged helplessly. “Yeah, why not. I’m screwed already anyway.”

“Well, if you don’t,” Crowley chimed in, “rest assured I’ll track you down and kill you in creative ways twice as many times as Hastur.”

The Disposable Demon nodded multiple times before making a show of going to sit on one of the chairs in the chapel and folding his hands in his lap. Crowley shot him one more warning look before following Aziraphale out of the room.

“That was hardly necessary,” Aziraphale said, pressing her lips in a tight line.

Crowley folded her arms. “It’s how Hell works. I thought you knew that.”

“Yes. Well.” The angel clasped her hands behind her back. “What do you propose we do?”

Crowley shrugged. “Hope this’ll be enough?”

“Really, Crowley?” Aziraphale’s eyes mirrored something akin to disappointment. “We’ve come all the way here, and now you want to, as they say, chicken out?”

Crowley threw her arms up. “I’m not chickening out! I’m being reasonable. Think about it, angel. The bond isn’t all that beneficial. If one of us is kidnapped by our former employers, we’re both fucked!”

“On the contrary,” argued Aziraphale, “if one of us is kidnapped, the other will surface somewhere in Heaven or Hell, but free. What would you do if I were dragged to Heaven?”

“Well, I’d go there looking for you,” Crowley answered. “Yeah, all right,” she conceded then, rolling her eyes.

“The hardest part would be getting into Heaven, wouldn’t it? This way, you’d already be there.”

Crowley held up a finger. “Uh-uh. The hardest part would be getting into Heaven _unnoticed_.”

“Still, it could work to our advantage,” Aziraphale argued. “And if it doesn’t, it still isn’t a big complication in my view, in exchange for becoming stronger.”

There was a pause. Crowley took a deep breath. “You’re forgetting something. If one of us dies, the other does as well.” She reached for Aziraphale’s hand. “If you were killed, angel... if you were killed, I’d want to die too. But if I die, I can’t be the reason you do as well.”

Aziraphale looked up at her with a small, mournful smile. “That’s why this agreement works, Crowley. I hope you know I feel exactly the same way?”

Aziraphale’s expression was open and earnest. Crowley drew her into a close embrace.

“So, we’re really doing this thing, huh?” she murmured.

“It would seem so, yes.”

There was silence, broken only by the faint sound of wind blowing through trees outside the castle. Eventually, Crowley asked, “Do you _want_ to do this, Aziraphale?”

“Of course I do. Are you still having second thoughts?”

“No, I just – would you want to do this even if we weren’t in danger? Would you really _choose_ to be connected that way without means to take it back?”

“Of course I would, Crowley. Anything.”

Crowley squeezed her tightly before drawing back. Her eyes felt damp.

“Oh, my sweet,” Aziraphale whispered before reaching up to catch a few tears on her fingers. She stretched up on her tiptoes to press a kiss against Crowley’s temple.

Crowley wiped her eyes in a swift motion. “Right,” she said, voice wobbly. “Let’s go then.”

Aziraphale took her hand as they returned to the door to the shrine. The angel opened it a crack, peeking inside to assure herself there wasn’t a nasty surprise in the form of a certain duke waiting for them.

Eric was still sitting in his chair, back ramrod straight and hands folded. There was, however, another demon sitting next to him.

“Ruzgar?” Aziraphale blurted out, puzzled.

Crowley shouldered past her and glared at the newcomer. “What on Earth are _you_ doing here?”

Ruzgar crossed her legs casually. “I came to the wedding, of course,” she rasped. “Eric here came to tell me.”

“You went to Hell?” Crowley snapped at the Disposable Demon.

He raised his arms. “Just to fetch Ruzgar. On my dishonour. You see, we’ve got a book club down in Hell and –”

Crowley closed her eyes. “Ugh, really.”

“Well, I just thought she’d want to see a real, romantic wedding,” Eric continued. “She’s the wedding expert of our club, you know.”

“You know this isn’t really a wedding, right?” Crowley said.

Ruzgar ignored her. “I’ve been to a few human ones, you see. It makes me feel really connected to my work to see what the puny buggers do before I seduce them to the path of iniquity. Anyway, I know all the in sickness and in health schtick, kiss the bride et cetera. Real expert, me.” She boasted, grinning.

“Well, isn’t that just the ticket,” Crowley said dryly.

“I suppose we do need some witnesses to say the second part of the oath,” Aziraphale hurried to add, twisting her hands. She gave them what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

Ruzgar clapped her sinewy hands. “Let’s get started then! Bride and bride, in front of the altar.” She pointed at the stone structure.

Crowley rubbed her hand over her face. “Please, do shut up. Let us just say the thing, you say your thing, and then we’re off.”

“Oh, right, the wedding night and all that,” Ruzgar nodded sagely.

“For fuck’s –”

“Crowley, just come here,” Aziraphale said, placating, holding out her palms.

Crowley stepped close to the angel, facing her and entrusting her with her hands. “So we just say it,” she said, a sudden lump in her throat. She worried she wouldn’t be able to get the words out.

“Precisely,” Aziraphale confirmed, giving her a nervous but bright smile.

They began both at the same time, and Crowley could feel the magical properties of the vow immediately take effect. It wasn’t merely her human mouth forming the words; her immaterial form, extending just outside the borders of the mortal world, radiated them to outer space as the force of the binding spell enveloped it.

 _In the eyes of God_ , Crowley pronounced and found she meant it, because this wasn’t just for her; it was also for Aziraphale, for whom she would never hesitate to pray.

“We acknowledge your union,” Ruzgar and Eric recited, and Crowley felt might surge through her. It was power that fed off something unfamiliar, off a link between her and the radiance she’d got used to inviting close.

She watched Aziraphale open her eyes and stare at her as if she could see straight to Crowley’s core. The demon clutched her hands, body frozen.

“Well?” Aziraphale asked in a hushed tone.

“I think it worked,” Crowley said, eyes wide. “I feel as if I’ll level this entire castle if I move wrong.”

“That makes two of us,” Aziraphale replied, still quietly.

They both jolted when Ruzgar started clapping loudly, Eric joining in. “That was great,” she rasped. “Best wedding I’ve seen. Just make sure you’ll forward the announcement of your matrimony to Hastur. I bet he’ll shit himself.”

“Already done,” Eric said, brandishing his clipboard. “I really need to go, though. So, cheers.” He waved awkwardly before turning around in the direction of the entrance to Hell. His shoulders slumped visibly as he let out a heavy breath.

“Cheerio,” Aziraphale called after him as he started descending. “And thank you.”

“Yeah. Thanks Eric,” Crowley joined in.

He stopped, glancing at them, clearly unsure of what the response to a declaration of thanks was. “Enjoy the… honeymoon,” he said, grinning triumphantly at having remembered the word, and disappeared.

“Oh, yes. I’ll better leave so you can perform the honey moon,” Ruzgar nodded sagely. Without another word, she followed after Eric and gradually vanished from sight.

Crowley gingerly withdrew her hands from Aziraphale’s and slowly wandered towards the gate to Hell. She barely touched the slab of cut-out floor lying next to it before it slid into place, and the mahogany-coloured tiles reknitted to form an intact whole.

She frowned at her hands. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“It seems it’ll take some getting used to,” Aziraphale said, still remaining motionless. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t feel like driving back at the moment,” Crowley said, slowly straightening back up. “The way I see it, I’d probably turn the car into a giant walking robot just by touching the wheel.”

Aziraphale frowned in a perplexed manner.

“It’s from a film. Well, several films, unfortunately.”

Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps stomping across the courtyard.

“Humans,” Crowley intuited. “The castle’s probably got a monitoring system.”

The castle manager with three policemen barged into the chapel, brandishing torches.

Crowley snapped her fingers, and an appeal to immediately vacate the premises froze on the three policepersons’ lips.

“What now?” Crowley wondered.

“You know, dear,” Aziraphale said, “I don’t think I’ve ever haunted a castle.”

Crowley turned to look at her, a grin taking over her expression when she saw the mischievous twinkle in the angel’s eyes.

They left behind the frozen humans and climbed the staircase. They continued upwards after reaching the first floor and emerged on the second in a spacious hall with a long table in the middle. Aziraphale snapped her fingers, and light flooded the space. The room looked to have been recently renovated and, unlike the chapel below, appeared to hold very little historical value.

“So, what’s your haunting technique of choice? Creepy footsteps? Clatter of inexplicable origin?” Crowley asked.

“Well, people dance at weddings, don’t they? Perhaps we could dance on this occasion, whatever you wish to call it, as well,” Aziraphale said, looking up at Crowley coyly.

Crowley smiled like the lovesick fool she very much was. “Definitely a good choice.”

Their hands linked, and Aziraphale put her hand on Crowley’s waist tentatively – she was still hesitant about all of this; after all, two years were nothing compared to the rest of their lifespan – and they started swaying on the creaking floorboards.

They danced to no music in a castle which had for seven centuries concealed a gate to Hell whose existence was technically entirely Crowley’s fault. In the chapel, three policepersons and a castle manager snapped out of stupor and blinked at the empty room in puzzlement.

The castle manager sniffed the air and was hit with a strong stench of brimstone. Straining his ears, he could swear he heard footsteps from above. He nodded to himself; he’d always thought there was more to the legend than its value as a marketing tactic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading.
> 
> [The Houska Castle Legend](http://www.tresbohemes.com/2017/04/houska-castle/)


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